


a beautiful lie

by aelins, Chaol



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst and Porn, Expansion of powers, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Inspired by Underworld (Movies), Worldbuilding, there's so much world building!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:07:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26498368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aelins/pseuds/aelins, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chaol/pseuds/Chaol
Summary: The Great Council, the governing body of the Vampire Clan of Eastern Europe, has determined that three unholy men, responsible for the burning of the Covenant in Tblisi, Georgia--are to be assassinated.Feyre, Elain, and Nesta find their match in combat with the Greater Demon Rhysand, and his two brothers, Cassian and Azriel. Cassian and Azriel are Elders. They have been gifted powers by the gods due to their age and maturity as the leaders of the bloodline.But Feyre, Elain, and Nesta have powers of their own. Powers, of earth, wind, fire, and water.When they decide to join forces with the men who killed so many of their kind, they are hunted.But what would Samhain be without a good chase?A Feysand vampire/underworld au, FOR HALLOWEEN!
Relationships: Elain Archeron/Azriel, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Nesta Archeron/Cassian
Comments: 9
Kudos: 70





	1. the hunt

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! I've been talking about this on my Tumblr for a long while and you can see the introduction post [here](https://feyesand.tumblr.com/post/628803362291400704/a-wild-teaser-appears-ship-feysand-feyre). There's an aesthetic there which I think really adds to ~flavor~ of the au! 
> 
> This is part of my 100 follower celebration my followers voted that they wanted the first chapter of the UNDERWORLD AU, and Lyddy and I decided to release it a little earlier than we'd first thought we would! 
> 
> I really hope you enjoy this ✨

Feyre sat perched on the ledge of the highest peak on the St. Mary the Virgin Church, overlooking the river. The bell towers tolled the hour,  _ two in the morning. _ They would need to find their prey —and then find somewhere to feed—because one thing was for sure, Feyre would not be drinking a demon’s blood for dinner tonight. 

No, she entirely intended to spilling the Greater Demon’s blood, but she would not feast on it. The Council had long ago forbade drinking human blood. She’d had it—it was often rather bitter tasting. No, the biologically engineered clone blood would suit her just fine.

All these thoughts flood Feyre’s mind while she does what she is best at—hunting. Tracking and locating a Greater Demon was like following the garbage man around. Rhysand was a Prince of Hell, and it would not be difficult to find the salt and citrus smell of his unique magic signature floating through the city.

Her ultra-powerful binoculars capturing footage of the demon prince running through the rain—seemingly alone. 

“Gotcha,” Feyre murmurs to herself. 

Rain drips down her fingers in elegant droplets. This is the breath of cool, humid air before she plunges into hellfire. 

Feyre has always loved a dark and stormy night, it was when all the creatures came out to be  _ caught _ . Feyre wonders about how this will affect her position in the grand scheme of things. She—and her sisters—had been sent by the Great Council to  _ exterminate _ the Night brothers. They’d burned down a covenant on the outskirts of Tbilisi, and Feyre thought they ought to be relegated to the long-abandoned prison of Lushanka. 

It was absolutely pouring tonight, and there was lightning too.  _ Good,  _ she thought to herself,  _ all the better to hide the sound of gunfire _ . Because when she killed the Prince of Hell, it would not be a quiet affair. 

After giving a neigh imperceptible nod to her sisters, Nesta and Elain make the drop to the pavement below, she follows them, landing crouched like a cat. 

Feyre and her sisters all wore the same uniform of female deathdealers. 

A bodysuit, which covered them from head to toe, and was tucked into the impressive curb stompers they all wore, all black with many buckles. The bodysuit was made of a material that behaved like spandex but had the sheen of a plastic blend. To top it all off they all wore a corset that covered the important bits and was bulletproof. Feyre had topped hers off with a long, sweeping trench coat, as had Elain. 

Nesta was always the one to flaunt her goods, even if she was more likely to kill her male companions than sleep with them more than once. 

As the three, young vampires slunk into the underbelly of the Eastern European city, following the demon prince, and merely surveilling his movements. 

He was soon joined from the shadows by two other males. Clearly one of them was  _ unnatural _ — in the sense that he was a shadowsinger. 

Elain’s steps falter momentarily, as the tallest, and clearly oldest of the rogue vampires tossed her a fang ridden smile. 

Feyre, who was clearly prepared to give chase to the demon and his rogue vampire friends, feels the pull of compulsion on her. 

Of course, they would be vampires who were old enough to use  _ old world  _ powers on them. 

That had to make the one who used their powers on Feyre at least a thousand years old. 

A shudder goes through her, and before the compulsion running through her veins could take hold, she fires on them. The  _ pop-pop  _ of silenced gunshots ring in her ears. She didn’t need the local police hearing the ruckus and coming to investigate. 

The one in the middle, the demon with midnight blue hair, and the violet eyes—he turns on a dime and plucks the bullet out of the air. It all happens in slow motion, the Greater Demon Rhysand Night, and his brothers in all but blood turn to look unimpressed at the sisters. 

“Those bullets won’t kill me.” Rhysand croons. 

Feyre feels her heart do something funny in her chest. Elain shoots at the shadowsinger and he disappears on a cloud of thick shadow, then reappears behind Elain. 

The  _ Elder  _ vampire, presses Elain to his chest, her long, golden hair wrapped around his fist in a moment of unguarded fear. 

“Feyre, kill him.” Elain curses loudly and Nesta cackles. 

Nesta is the one who goes for the shadowsinger’s throat, her long nails, and fierce strength poised to rip his throat from his body. 

And Nesta finds her wrist being held, in a vice-like grip, the big, broad one seeming to hardly even  _ think  _ about his position of power. 

Feyre gives a feral snarl, “We were sent from—“ 

Rhysand waves his hand, “Azriel, Cassian, let the girl go.” 

Azriel does as he’s told, and Elain spits on his boots, is it just Feyre or does the shadowsinger give Elain a wounded look? Cassian looks Nesta up and down and Nesta snaps her fangs at him. 

Before Elain can protest that she’s no girl, the demon speaks, “We know you’ve been sent by the council.” Rhysand approaches Feyre and twirls a thick finger through her golden hair. She bears her teeth. 

Feyre recognizes the strange feeling in her chest, Rhysand is holding her will, and she  _ doesn’t like it _ . She didn’t take Rhysand to be the type of demon to hold someone’s will. She’d heard horror stories about him. By far—holding her will was the least of her problems. It was rumored he could crush a mind with a single thought—turn a sane vampire into merely a shell. 

Feyre, Elain, and Nesta hiss warnings at him, she  _ will not _ be made to feel weak, to feel powerless against this hellion. 

Feyre summons a wave of power, despite Rhysand’s hold on her will, and with a complicated movement of her hands, blasts him with it. 

Rhysand gets hit square in the chest, with her unholy power, he stumbles back but seems otherwise unperturbed, however, his pristine suit is now rumpled. 

“Poor Illyrian baby,” It’s Feyre’s turn to croon this time. 

“Boys,  _ walk away _ , they don’t know their own strength and I’m not about to prove it to the council.” Rhysand was giving Feyre a curious look as if he knew something interesting she didn’t. 

Cassian lets Nesta go, and they're gone on the flourish of Rhysand’s trench coat. 

Elain looks like she wants to feast on Azriel’s bones, and Nesta may as well be spitting and hissing—the murder in her eyes is so vivid. 

“They’ll regret it,” Feyre murmurs—disappointment plain in her voice. 

Elain sighs, Nesta gives a short, unhappy bark of laughter, and begins to speak, “They’re fucking untouchable.” 

Feyre gives her sister a shrug, “They celebrate Samhain, just like every other creature that haunts this city. We’ll get them then.” 

Elain protests, “Only the two batboys—not Rhysand, and he’s who the council really wants you to take out.” 

Feyre shrugs, “I’m sure getting in his pants will be easier than getting in the door of that fucking mansion.” 

The mansion Feyre referred to was an old, old, house that had been made into the lap of luxury. It was their home and had been named The House of Wind. It was positioned on top of a mountain and was only accessible by flight. 

Feyre vanishes and her sisters follow. 

*~*~* 

The next night marks the beginning of the Samhain celebrations, which start exactly one week before the date of Samhain. 

Feyre is still curling her hair, trying to get the beachy waves to fall perfectly—when Nesta walks in looking like… a fucking prostitute. 

Feyre frowns, “Are you trying to get them to pay you for your time Nes?” 

Nesta, in her imperious and obnoxious way—smiles at her younger sister, “You said we were trying to get in their pants.” 

Feyre’s eyebrows raise to her hairline— “Yeah but—“ 

Nesta inches up the side of her cocktail dress which leaves very little to the imagination—and reveals a demon metal dagger. Feyre smiles. 

Elain pipes up with an inconvenient question at the exact moment Feyre finally gets her waves perfect. 

“You know it was kind of strange how you could still summon all that power while Rhysand was holding your will.” Elain’s question sounds innocent enough—but the deeper meaning was unsettling. 

Elain had an uncanny knack for speaking uncomfortable truths at an inconvenient time. Feyre hisses as the curling iron burns her fingers. 

“Damn it, Elain, why do you need to do that?” 

Elain shrugs blamelessly, clearly knowing what was annoying Feyre. 

Nesta begins putting her jewelry on, vampires often had more wealth than they truly knew what to do with. They lived so long, and the Council gave more money to deathdealers than any other kind of vampires, because of the great importance they held in society. 

One might be inclined to compare deathdealers to the human police—the two were not the same in the least. Deathdealers were fixers, their motto was  _ not _ defend and protect—it was more like assassinate and ask questions later. Deathdealers upheld _no moral code_ , merely the whims of the council. 

Neither were they apart of the army of vampires that had been growing in Russia for many years. Moscow was the closest outpost. 

In 1989 the Berlin Wall had fallen, but what the wall had symbolized never died. The council still resided in the great city of Moscow and presided over the smaller Eastern European cities with an iron grip. 

The Iron Curtain was alive and well—for the creatures who haunted the night. 

Feyre’s mind wanders and she doesn’t realize it but Nesta is staring at her, her sister snaps her fingers in Feyre’s face, muttering something about Illyrian bat boys—that were too attractive for their own good. 

Feyre can’t help the feeling that tonight will end with either joy or her own death. She knows Rhysand is a force to be reckoned with, as are his brothers in arms. 

*~*~* 

Nightfall has them climbing into Elain’s Audi Q8. The girls were decked out in their best finery, as would be expected of them. They were armed to teeth, however, especially Feyre, because they’d agreed to divide and conquer. Each of the girls would get the attention of one of the boys and with their glamours firmly in place, it should be an easy job. 

The doorman announces them as the Sokolov sisters and then announces them individually. 

Rhysand greets them, and Feyre has to admit—the man is breathtaking. His violet eyes seem to be glowing with mirth as he shakes Feyre’s hand for a moment too long. Elain and Azriel’s eyes meet, and Elain seems to be taken over by some dark cloud of emotion, which is quickly covered up by Feyre whispering “This is not the time to have a vision, dear sister.” 

Elain laughs as if drunk and Feyre thinks they might  _ all _ be drunk on the sight of the men in front of them. 

Nesta brings up the rear, and she does not smile or make nice, simply gives Cassian a rough handshake, and smirks, baring her fangs. 

It was going to be an interesting night—as it always was when the Archeron sisters were working together. 


	2. moth to flame ; a thousand little threads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The huntress circles her prey, yet how easily the tables might turn. Will Feyre and her sisters keep the upper hand?

*~*~*

CHAPTER 2

*~*~*

Decadence and indulgence are sins that sweeten the mortal life, one cannot say they do much when one has been indulging in hedonism ritually for over a thousand years. Yet they are seemingly preferably to being something saintly and stalwart - Rhysand has no intention of being either of those particular traits. The sisters arrive -- and they are a  _ picture  _ of hedonism. Each brother is drawn - lured into the spider's web, uncaring if they end up bound for the night. 

Cassian - never one for self preservation, finds himself drawn to what will doubtless end badly. Bared teeth and lips the shade of blood, it’s little wonder the male is seduced just by looking at her. If death wore so pretty a package - he would welcome it with open arms--and straight to the bedroom. Of course, Nesta was just that - death wearing a sinful skin that was so easy to die for. Azriel - the oldest of them - with the most unique of powers -- he was usually the wise one, the cautious one. Yet he is bowing - offering to dance as he extends his hand. Marked though it is - the softer of the sisters accepts, perhaps she would even blush if she could. They are a picture of contrast, he is dark and twisted - scarred and shadowed, she is gentle strength and joy. 

Will Rhysand sustain any better against the final sister? Oh yes, he knows it’s the Archerons there was no doubt in his mind. The forging work on heir invitations had been expertly done--but had not fooled the door man. 

Would the fates come to play with the men who have defied their deaths for too long? The Lord of the Night watches the final sister - she is no less feral than the first, or less beautiful than the second - there is something… as hard and as heavy as iron in her. Something that draws him, a thread as red as blood perhaps - fate works in mysterious ways. 

Each step takes him closer to her, until he brushes at her elbow, “Your sisters seemed to find their targets -- quickly.” 

She turns on her heel as he touches her - skin blazing as if -- shaking her head free of the idea, she is here to work. As are her sisters, “Your brothers seemed to acquire their prey just as quickly.” To meet his gaze - she tips her chin that little bit upwards, violet eyes rove down her neck. Tracking the run of her skin, skin he would kill to caress with careful hands. 

Rhysand seems spellbound, his voice pitches a low timbre, “Have you been worshipped yet? Have mortal men fallen on their knees and begged for you to spare them? Have immortals deigned to acknowledge you -- and you then rain your judgement upon them? Because you are young -- I can smell it on you. But you are mighty.” Rhysand leaned close as he spoke, his breath a whisper against the shell of her ear. “Would you have the devil bow at your feet and worship? To consume you until your legs shake and your voice is hoarse from cries? Reach new depths as the devil gives you pleasure that such a deity deserves? It’s who the devil was meant to be wasn’t it, God’s favorite?” 

There was a moment when Feyre considered killing him then and there - perhaps it would have been wiser than to let him continue spinning his own spiders web. Of him as the devil at her feet, worshipping. 

“I am well respected for what I am.” Comes her half truth reply, who she really is and who he can know her as -- that might be two different things. But the idea of the ancient immortal on his knees in front of her in worship -- it was a disturbingly distracting thought. Feyre felt an unfamiliar - yet not unwanted warmth spiraling in her veins, settling low in her stomach. A swallow as she watched him, he was dangerous - but not in the ways she’d first expected.

A predator is most dangerous, when you do not expect it to be hunting you. No one suspects the cat who winds around your legs to shred you with its claws the next. Such truth holds for both players now, cards held close to their chest. Both play at a game - yet the rules of it… might not even exist. Rhysand’s lips curl into a smile, there’s something beautiful about it she realizes - like the light has been sucked from the room and focused in on him. A clouding of her thoughts as she realizes -- she’s the one focusing on him, her hand forms a fist at her side, flexing to regain some semblance of natural control. Feyre wasn’t like this, she didn’t get  _ swayed _ by pretty faces and beautiful bodies. 

“We are the creatures that haunt the night, we do not get respected.” Rhysand’s voice was a thunderous roar, “We get used and thrown away like pawns in a chess match - yet within us lies the power to rule the board! Fucked by the councils, hated by most humans, idolized by the rest. We hate ourselves and each other. You do not want to be respected  _ darling one _ , you want to be feared.  _ And few have deserved fear as much as you, I think. _ ”

“What I do and do not deserve is none of your business.” Feyre hisses, though she cannot deny she’s warm and wet in the depths of her lower belly. 

This time when he leans to murmur to her - she’s prepared, less startled by his closeness as he drags a finger down the line of her neck, where her jugular once thrummed with blood.

If her heart still beat - it would have jumped at his touch. Skin burning with awareness as he murmured, “But I will not just respect you. I will worship you. And I will fuck you until I am all that you desire, and it will be enough. --And you will have the very rare experience of the devil on his knees to worship every moment of every day.” 

Her breath caught in her lungs, eyes darkening as she watched him, speechless as he retreated as quickly as he’d been at her side. What had she expected -- why had she said no? Getting him alone was paramount to getting this job over and done with, and what better way to do it than with him all but offering to prostrate himself before her. 

Yet somehow echoing in her mind over and over were his words, worse yet - was the swirling need that seemed to settle in her bones. Something in him calling her - not merely the idea of satisfaction with his death, but -- fucking hell she was fantasizing about him while he stood across the room watching. Something was off about him - whatever his abilities were they must be messing with her head still. Yet if she were truthful, what she felt now wasn’t like when he’d taken hold of her mind - it was worse. 

Earlier it had been an unwilling grasp on her mind - but this - this was her mind and body bending and giving into him without him even being aware of who she was… or what she had come here for. Because somehow when she reminded herself that she was here for him, her body had an all together different idea of what that meant. And while the idea of him decapitated and her standing over him victorious had some appeal, the idea of him buried balls deep fucking her into satin sheets held a greater appeal … and the latter was the one that gained the most visceral reaction from her body. The heat that had settled low in her stomach clenched in unfamiliar need. The idea of sex had its appeal perhaps, but somehow it was the idea of  **_him_ ** that was causing this unwelcome stirring of her body. Emotions rose to the surface - fighting to escape her vice like grip on them. Feyre rarely had trouble controlling her emotions, beyond anger and pleasure at her jobs completed and well done -- perhaps some lingering affection towards her sisters, but this was entirely different; and it was distracting her. 

Nesta and Cassian danced on the farside of the room -- their bodies moving together in perfect unison. His head was thrown back in laughter, the warmth and roar of it drawing Feyre’s attention.

Interrupted as Elain was coming towards her -- cheeks almost appearing flushed, her perfectly coiffed hair that little bit asunder. A brow arched -- “And just what exactly have you been doing? Are you done already?” 

Feyre’s voice perhaps came out harsher than she intended, but the Shadowsinger was gliding towards them, his frame dwarfing those around him as he brought Elain a goblet of wine -- “Azriel -- this is my sister..” Confusion flickered across Feyre’s features, but at the tender brush of his scarred hands to her sisters wrist -- it was evident that this tenuous thread that seemed to tie each together was complicating things. Azriel was a quiet man, but there was an effort at a smile as he and Feyre exchanged quiet greetings. There was no doubt the devotion he seemed to immediately effect upon her sister -- Elain seemed to glow from it… or perhaps they had just simply been fucking in the corner, hidden in shadows.. 

Feyre decided it was time to take matters into her own hands, to take charge of her target despite her conflicting and confusing emotions. It hadn’t fully dawned on her -- just the full scope of things she was feeling… She and her sisters were still young, the females of their species - should they go long without their mate, would lose emotions entirely. The tragedy that had befallen the Archerons had hastened that progress in some ways - expediting the shortening of their emotional ranges. Nesta finds disgust and rage easiest to reach -- Elain reaching for fear, and her sister's affection - with Feyre clawing to keep a grip on the fragile bonds that held them together - with pleasures in a deathdealers life revolving around destruction… there was little room for more positive emotions. 

Excusing herself from Elain - she begins to walk the room. Deep breaths as she feels the thrumming life of the room, there is beauty in this sinful indulgence. Inelegant in its crudity, there are couples in corners, the scent of sex heavy in the air. Yet like a king above it all Rhysand sits on his throne, a dark and glittering thing. She looks closer and realizes that it’s in fact a dangerous magic that holds the throne together, he’s actually thought to capture a bit of the night sky for his throne--the natural and unnatural quality of its spectacle of it all feels like a kick to the gut. Like the night he is darkness and their master, and they creatures of the night that they are are drawn with inevitability to him.

His feet and long legs dangle over the arm of the ebony-like throne, his smile gleaming like glinting stars splitting through the darkest midnight as his violet eyes fall to her. Tracking her steps towards him, feet drop his lounging place on his throne, as he rises, a picture of languid fluidity -- his hand outstretched to her. Feyre knows he could rip her glamour away, remove the facade and find who she is within - yet though this walk towards him began with his death in her mind, with each approaching step - her need for pleasure derived from his touch rises to overtake it. Fate’s sealed as her fingers slip into his waiting hand, the surge of power between them undeniable. The violet tones in his eyes seem to deepen, hair that once seemed only black -- glimmers a thunderous midnight black, lips that seemed only to sneer - parted to show a smile that somehow seemed like moonlight pouring into blackness. That was the contrast of him, the allure - that someone so steeped in the darkness might somehow feel as if he brought  _ her _ the light.

Yet as his fingers glide down her wrist and up her forearm - there is the mistake as his sensuous touch discerns the brand on her ski. This one mistake that may well cost her and her sisters lives. Teeth are barred in an instant as his grasp turns from promises of sensuality and loving, to that of death itself --- “How  _ dare _ you think to fool me ---.” And just as easily as that, the glamour hiding her and her sisters was ripped away. The brand on her wrist marking her a deathdealer was in plain view. The violet eyes that rove her body are no less admiring as his presence invades her mind, pervading sense of familiarity coursing through her body as he draws her flush to him. “Feyre Archeron ---” His voice was sharp, a thousand knives dug into her heart of hearts.  _ The game was up. _ “Come to dance to your council masters demands? Do you really think t **hey** give a  _ fuck _ about  **you** ?”

With Azriel and Cassian holding both her sisters - Feyre realizes that things have gone… Not according to plan, and even with this disturbing revelation - their fate and immortal lives hanging in precarious balance… Feyre cannot help the way being pressed against his body with his arm around her feels -- right. And that is what drives her fury higher, spitting at him with disdain. “As if  _ you _ give a fuck about anyone but yourself! The council wants your head and I will give it to them --” Teeth snap as she bares her fangs to him - his grasp on her shifting to draw her closer to him, pressing her between him and the table beneath her. 

“You have no idea -- the  _ kind _ of fuck I will give  _ you _ .” His voice is a sensual purr as their bodies press flush to one another, eyes flashing with need and betrayal. Feyre’s lips part as if to speak, but she finds no words - her body awash in a thousand feelings she doesn’t understand. His grasp on her body and mind relenting; he watches her, waiting for her to strike, but as her gaze raises to his like a moth to a flame, he at last leans down to claim her lips in a vicious kiss. Denying the thread that binds them no longer - the beginnings of a bond cement. Fragile threads twisting and twining two immortal souls to become one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh !!! This is such a joy to write, I hope you like this installment of 'A Beautiful Lie' !! Yet again another MAGNIFICENT idea from Vikki !! This is such a fun story to bring y'all, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it! 
> 
> If you like it plz feel free to leave kudos or comments! The feedback serves as major encouragement for both of us to keep writing! <3


	3. because you love me the most

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The facade breaks and cracks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vikki here! Sorry for the long break, my personal life is a damned mess.

The fragile threads that tie them together in that moment--they are strengthening, twisting in her chest, and before she realizes it--they take hold and she can no longer deny the power of their connection. 

Rhysand’s eyes twinkle, and Feyre lashes out, the power in her veins she’d barely known was there rising to the surface to answer the calling of power on power. 

Feyre strikes out with fire--a most unholy power, and technically one she should not be able to wield. Only  _ Elders _ could wield the power of the elements--and even then they did it with the utmost care. Azriel is no longer holding Elain captive, but holding her close to his chest--the same with her absolute viper of a sister. Cassian holds Nesta as if there is nothing else in the world he’d rather do than die for her happiness. 

Elain reaches out, summoning water from thin air and engulfing the fire. Still, a few of Rhysand’s midnight blue hairs are singed, it’s a close thing. 

Rhysand moves his hand in an arc, and the water drops down on Feyre’s head in a deluge. 

She screeches her outrage, sopping wet and furious, it is  _ Feyre _ who points at Rhysand, her finger pointing at him in a death promise that would send a lesser man running. “ _ How dare you! How dare you!”  _ She continues to shout and the entire hall has gone stiffly silent. 

Rhysand doesn’t look smug now, and Feyre thinks he might be slightly pleased with himself. Some of the water had splashed onto him, and his very expensive suit was now wet up to his knees.

Rhysand addresses the crowd, which is looking skittish now, “I think I may have just discovered my mate is in fact a ruthless deathdealer, if you’d give us just a moment, and don’t slip on the lovely bit of water my dear sister in law has just splashed all over the room--” 

Feyre’s chest is heaving, and Nesta--of all people, steps out of the way when Rhysand brings her past her sister and into the depths of the mansion. 

No one stops him from dragging Feyre away. 

_ Not even Feyre herself.  _

*~*~* 

They’d been shouting at each other for the better part of an hour. Feyre was trying to shut out the mating bond--and it was giving Rhysand a merciless headache. 

Feyre snaps, “I was born a deathdealer,  _ I’ll die a deathdealer. _ ” 

Rhysand murmurs something unhappily. 

Feyre’s head whirls in his direction, “ _ What was that _ ?” 

Rhysand’s hands wring nervously, “I said you won’t be dying anytime soon.” 

Feyre raises a perfect eyebrow at him, “I’m immortal--” 

Rhysand stands and sticks his hands in his pockets, “You’re immortal, yes, but without the  _ bond _ ,” Feyre gives him a venomous look, “You  _ could _ have been killed--a silver stake or the sun would’ve ended your short life. That’s an impossibility now.” 

Feyre gapes like a fish out of water at him… “I--I can go out in the sun?” 

Something is flying upward in her chest, and she feels joy, which she hadn’t felt in too long--she hadn’t felt any true, unfettered emotion in nearly twenty-five years. And now that she’s beginning to accept this bond between them, she knows she cannot do the Council’s bidding. 

_ She was his mate, his mate, his mate.  _

Tears threaten, she feels so much consuming emotion, she’s so overwhelmed. Rhysand is silent. 

His voice is a cavernous ache when he speaks, “You could--deny it--if it bothers you that much?” 

“No!” She says a little too sharply. 

Rhysand’s grin is telling, “So you want it?” 

Feyre’s fingers itched to smack the grin off his face, but if this man was truly her mate, which given the wealth of emotion flooding her right now--she suspected was true, she would not strike him. Not again. 

Heat settles low in her belly, after long moments. She knows it’s the mating bond, it needs them to well--mate. Feyre doesn’t want this to be more difficult than it needs to be. 

“You gave me back the sun,” and her voice shakes with the deeper meaning there, “I will be your mate.” 

Rhysand nods, and escorts her outside, where the sun is rising, the grey of dawn already peeking through the tops of the buildings. They sit in poignant silence. And Rhysand gives her space, and Feyre is glad of it. She casts her mind to her sisters, the power of the mating bond simmering just below the surface. She thinks of them, and it occurs to her that the eyeful of Cassian and Azriel she gets is--not normal. 

Finally, she speaks, “What are your powers?” 

Rhysand casts his eyes upward, “Darkness.” 

“That’s an awfully broad category,” Feyre’s eyes roll and Rhysand thinks they may threaten to stay that way if she’s not careful. 

“I mean it literally,” Rhysand inhales sharply and shakes his head. “There are different kinds of darkness,” Rhys said. I shut my eyes, and thought of each one, what his power might touch if it were allowed. “There is the darkness that frightens, the darkness that soothes, the darkness that is restful.” I pictured each. “There is the darkness of lovers and the darkness of assassins. It becomes what the bearer wishes it to be, needs it to be. It is not wholly bad or good.”

I opened my eyes, “So…” 

“You know that’s not my only power, I think you long suspected what I was when you met me.” 

“There are rumors among the Council members…” Feyre’s voice trailed off. She’d felt the jolt of his power in that alleyway. 

“Pick a story, they’re all true,” Rhys said, his voice a dark, unrelenting ache. 

“Then you’re a daemati? That’s how you held my will.” 

“I didn’t hold your will, I held your mind--the two are rather different. You could hold my mind if you so chose, you now have my power, and I think the sum total of our combined powers could do many things.” 

Rhys’ voice had trailed off, the sun was shining through the trees, and Feyre inhaled sharply as a lone sunbeam touched her cheek. “It’s so beautiful.” Feyre’s fingers shook as she touched her cheek the sun didn’t burn, didn’t hurt as it had all her life. She had never known the pleasure of the sun, had never known to miss it. 

And now she knew the depth of the gift Rhys had given her. 

“You must want to seal the mating bond,” Feyre said after soaking in the rays of sun for a long moment. 

Rhys looked anywhere but at Feyre. 

“We can’t.” 

Feyre’s head whipped toward him, “W-what do you mean? Are we not mates?” 

“Of course we are, but I was once bonded to Amarantha,” Rhys scoffs, “it’s gone on too long.” 

“Amarantha--she’s a demon like you?” 

Rhys barked a short, unhappy laugh, “Demon is such a crude word don’t you think, we prefer  _ Fallen _ .” 

“You’re not answering my question,” Feyre said, she was so relaxed from the sun, she hadn’t thought Rhysand might have a past--like she did as well. 

Her mind is cast back to her boyfriend--was that what he even was? Tamlin was the leader of the Council, he was far too young for the position and his ruthlessness had always appealed to her. She could see what that ruthlessness really amounted to though--disparity. 

“Are the rumors true about you, as well?” Rhysand asked, “You let a Council member into your bed?” 

Feyre snarls, “I don’t want to fight,” 

Rhys laughs, “If it’s true then we’re up against the brunt of the Council and you of all people would know how criminally well connected they are.” 

Feyre stands from her perch on the stone wall surrounding Rhysand’s personal balcony. 

“There is much that is true about me that you will not like,” Feyre said with a note of finality. 

“I don’t think you could possibly surpass what I have committed, remember, I’m the Prince of Hell.” 

Feyre muttered something, and Rhys stood as well, “What was that?” He asked, a note of displeasure obvious in his voice. 

Feyre raised her voice, “I called you an Illyrian baby!” 

Rhysand snorted a laugh, and they decided to get breakfast. 

*~*~* 

A question presses in on Feyre’s mind as the sun rises and they try to avoid the absolutely  _ sinful _ noises coming from the commander and the shadowsinger’s respective bedrooms. 

“Shouldn’t we be doing that?” Feyre inquires, she sticks a thumb over her shoulder and does something Nesta had shown her. She  _ bent  _ the air. 

Rhys spins on his heel, “What are you doing?” His voice was cruel and sharp. 

“Nothing, Nesta taught me this trick,” she’s simply rubbing two fingers together, but the power rolling off her is undeniable. “If you think about the molecules of air, and manipulate them, then you can  _ bend  _ the air and get rid of  _ unwanted noises _ .” 

Rhysand takes her by the shoulder and leads her to the outside. It’s a beautiful day, and calm, and sunny. 

He taps his foot, “I think you’re far more powerful than you realize.” 

“What now?” Feyre sighs, and knows he’s skirting the question about what they should really be doing right now-- _ consummating their bond _ . 

“Summon a storm.” 

Feyre gives him another snide look, but just as she’s about to speak, Rhysand begins explaining. 

“You’re an elemental.” 

Feyre gives him a questioning look, “No--I’m a vampire.” 

Rhysand  _ tsk’s _ , “You’re a vampire elemental, then. Don’t split hairs with me, you need to train.” 

“Don’t belittle me.” 

“Don’t be obstinate.” 

“Don’t  _ fucking _ tell me what to do!” 

It was going to be a long day, wasn’t it? 


	4. chapter 4: where something once was made ; let it now be broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With everyone surrendering to the lure of the mating bond, will Feyre and Rhysand accept what grows irrevocably between them? Or will Rhysand's past come back to haunt them.

*~*~* 

CHAPTER 4

*~*~*  
An unsealed mating bond was not a comfortable experience for either party, yet Rhysand was not free to join with his true mate - the story of why was yet to be given to Feyre. Feyre who resisted him at every turn, Feyre who learned her gifts with remarkable speed, who never let the weight of this new life crush her. 

There were times that she couldn’t remember not feeling the sun on her face, Elain and Azriel had sealed their bond the night they met - meaning that the next morning she was out at dawn exploring the gardens. Nesta and Cassian hadn’t stopped sealing their mating bond until well into the next afternoon, but her elder sister was sitting in the sun engrossed in a novel while her mate read over her shoulder. 

Rhysand stepped out onto the veranda, setting sun glinting against midnight black hair - the deep tones of his skin brought out by the warm light. Feyre gazed enjoying the view of him until he caught her staring, a faint smile on his lips.

“Enjoying the view?”

“And if I am?”

Before he can answer Nesta scoffs, “Oh just seal the bond already -- and quit blocking my sunlight.” 

Feyre couldn’t help but laugh at the surprised expression that tinted his features, shaking his head he abruptly turned and headed back into the palatial home. While they had slept, the house had been cleaned and returned to its normal state. That morning, when Rhysand didn’t return, a thread of -- something like concern twisted around her heart and drew her up from her perch to seek him out. 

In the depths of the library he was reading, his desk covered in papers that he likely ought to be dealing with. Instead, he was buried in a book, a goblet in one hand - emptied of its contents as he set it down. Gaze raised to her - silence hung between them before he sighed. 

“It is not entirely fair of me to surprise you with all this -- and then be unable to give you what you... What we - both need..” 

Feyre nodded but moved to sit on the arm of the large leather chair he sat in. “No -- it isn’t particularly fair. But I assume that you have a reason.” 

Absentmindedly his hand brushed up and down her forearm as he set the book aside, moving to draw her in his lap. There was so much she deserved to know, so much that she should know, and while he’d like to think they had an immortal lifetime to delve into all these intricacies. The truth was that every day they remained unbonded, her life was in danger. Especially since -- there was little doubt rumor of the Archeron and Night bondings hadn’t been spread around and through the entire vampiric society.

“You won’t have met her -- but I have a cousin on my father’s side. A wonderful woman. Morrigan. While her story is not my own to share, it is relevant -- she was put into an arranged marriage by her father. This was -- against her wishes and will, and so when she refused it, her jilted groom arranged for her to be taken. There is a growing and thriving faction of our people who use and sell us. Morrigan was set to be sold, foolishly I thought myself powerful and old enough to rescue her on my own. Yet what I was met with, was not a hidden faction, but a council sanctioned … culling of ranks. Families or lines that would disagree with the decision of the council would be sold for other’s pleasure. This was managed by a woman -- Amarantha.”

Feyre wants to interrupt, but there’s something about his face that keeps her quiet. Even as he pauses to take a long steadying breath. Even going so far as to slip into his lap, drawing his arms around herself - the act immediately grounding Rhysand from the path his mind went. This was… not an easy story to tell, but it was one that affected her now.

“I was taken to her, given an audience. And managed an exchange. Myself, for Morrigan. Morrigan was set free and I remained, Azriel and Cassian could not reach me. And even if they had been -- at the time I wouldn’t have wanted it. I wasn’t sold, I was too dangerous for that. Instead, I was kept - as Amarantha’s pet, her toy -- I was her whore for over fifty years.” 

Venom laces every word, yet it isn’t just hatred of her, but of himself. There’s a tension that rests in his features, Feyre’s fingers reach to brush along his jaw. Violet eyes blinking quickly as they shift over to her gaze, from where he’d been occupied staring across the room.

“Amarantha found a way to force a mating bond between us. It still exists. Despite having escaped, despite having been gone for as long as I have been. But that is why I cannot give you the bond I so desperately want to…She never was good about letting go of her playthings.” 

Vulnerability is obvious in the ancient vampire’s features now, Feyre wonders how she ever thought him a demon when she gazed at him. Moving in his arms, she straddles his lap - her arms draped over his shoulders as she leaned to brush her lips to his. A groan reverberates through him, the pull of the bond that should be ravaging both of them, the kiss deepening, his hands splayed at her hips as he draws her against him. Yet she feels it as soon as he does, an iron wall that slams between their spirits as they would reach to twine and bond as one. Rhysand deals with a further symptom, physical pain that has him hissing in agony. 

Feyre leaps back off of him, eyes wide as the pain seems to seep from his pores. A hiss of agony as he straightens -- eyes closing as he attempts to control his reaction to the pain if nothing else. What Feyre does next is nothing if not as natural as breathing, instead of pulling away -- her mind and spirit fully merging with his. 

Surprise plays unchecked on his features as the feel of Feyre within his mind chases away the hateful pain caused by another, another long out of his life, but who was not content to let him truly leave. The venomous feeling of Amarantha’s claws around his heart lessen that little bit, violet eyes still flickering with pain as Feyre’s hands frame his face. The concern he hadn’t expected to see lined her features. Rhysand does not resist as she draws him into her arms again, letting her touch soothe away the sharp afterbite of Amarantha’s punishment. 

Feyre speaks at last, “She uses the bond to torture you?” 

A silent nod from the midnight haired demon, “Little different from when I was in her presence. But at least here I do not have to pretend to enjoy being her toy.” 

Something akin to fury lit the slate gray gaze of his mate, jaw tightening as she brushed the sweat from his brow. A tender movement for a woman who looked about to be on the warpath. Leaning into her touch as his eyes drift shut, enjoying her touch as if starved for it - starving for kindness - starved for warmth. 

The females of their species may slowly begin to lose their emotions when unmated, but no male of their species found any true comfort in the arms or caress of another. They were intended to need with keening desire their mate, and even as they both understood now his protest to leave it the bond between them unsated, it didn’t lessen that none but her touch would ever set those embers to flame within him.

Remaining several long luxurious moments, while his body siphoned off the calm and peace of her touch - his mind relaxing with Feyre’s vigilant presence within his thoughts. The silence was broken by Feyre speaking again - the silence shattered by a simple declaration. 

“Then it’s time for the bitch to die like the fucking animal she is.”

Death came naturally to Feyre Archeron, and for most of her relatively short life - the drive for it had been simple. Survival, advancement, ambition, and following orders. Yet now as she brushed back blue-black hair from her almost-lover’s forehead, there was a new reason that death would answer her call.   
Love. 

It bloomed sharp and fierce within her chest, unfettered by bonds or councils or what-ifs, Feyre recognized the call of her heart. It called to him, to Rhysand Night. No longer did she wish to resist it, but embrace it. It was only with the darkness that you could appreciate the light, and so she had burst into his life like a flare of unfettered starlight. Purging from him every weak desire to just give up. 

A breath as he straightened, reaching to cup her cheek in his hand - gaze meeting hers. Repeating her words with the same fervor and intensity, “Then it is time for the bitch to die --”

Leaning down her lips brushed his, careful to not dwell too long. Yet still, the fleeting kiss was seared into her, her breath caught, her fingers curling against his forearm. Lips flushed as she drew back.

“I cannot wait to make you mine.” Feyre’s words indicated a possession that he ought to in part be apprehensive of considering his experience, but the woman who had forced the bond - was nothing like the woman who would break it and form their own. 

His voice was a low hum as his arms encircled her waist, leaning to steal another too brief kiss - murmuring against her lips, “I’ll be counting the seconds Feyre darling… counting the seconds.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heey ! So this chapter took forever to come, and I do apologize !! Life has been crazy - and i didn't want to post something I wasn't sure was okay. So ! I hope you enjoy this and happy spooky season ! If you enjoy it plz give it a like or a comment so we know our efforts are appreciated! - azrielwingspans

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget to subscribe/leave kudos/comment or however, you like to show appreciation!


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